Only This and Nothing More
by VioletLolitaPop
Summary: America keeps his head down, his eyes fixated on his own hands, on the supple flesh beneath them. His fingers spread slightly, flattening against Russia's chest until both palms in their entirety lay as they had before. .:Yandere!America ... maybe:.


**xxx**

_"I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.  
>I heard many things in hell.<br>How, then, am I mad?"_

**xxx**

Through the darkness he hears the _scrape scrape scrape_ of metal against brick before the dull squelch of wet cement that resonates as the slab is aligned with the others. It's because of this sound he finally begins to stir and regains consciousness.

His pale lashes flutter against cheekbones as his eyelids begin to open slowly, only to find his surroundings to be as dark as they were when his eyes were closed, the thinnest ray of light being the only detail visible. He attempts to bring his hands up to his eyes, all for the sake of clearing his sight but finds himself unable to move his arms. Further investigation tells him that he is not able to move any appendage.

While he squirms about in his restraints, attempting many different ways of freeing himself and not once submitting to the idea of escape being impossible, a faint click of metal against wood goes by unheard as an unseen hand reaches for the tin fastening of a tightly closed lantern. With nimble fingers, the shade is pulled back and the luminous orb hidden is released, lighting just enough for the small area of the musty room.

At first he recognizes nothing, the sudden light making his eyes shut once more before slowly opening them, adjusting to the sudden change of illumination. When his vision settles, the first objects he takes note of are his restraints, the predictable chain links wrapped around his body from torso to toes like a wiry cocoon.

Though his observations prove to be a distraction, the once hidden hand clutches the discarded tool once more, picking the instrument up and slathering more of the concrete mixture onto it's blade before scraping over a brick in the same repetitive manner as before, calling his attention back and in little more than an instant, he recognizes the other all by the sight of that tell-all tuft of blonde hair defying gravity.

The glare of light reflecting off the lenses of the other's glasses obscures a clear view of his abductor's eyes, the tight frown and pointed nose being able to belong to anyone, but that one particular physical attribute is all he needs to quickly identify his captor and breathe out the name, "Amerika."

For a brief split second, the other's actions pauses once more, as though stunned by the acknowledgement before resuming the methodical routine, and on seeing such, an unsettling feeling washes over him that causes a sudden call back to the very beginnings of their own personal fall out that would involve so many other participants, and the words of his superior warning him of the threat this person in front of him could pose. For the first time since hearing those words, Russia begins to believe they may have some merit.

"It was many and many a year ago, in the kingdom by the sea," the blonde begins, startling Russia out of his thoughts, and in a tone so soft that he must strain to hear his words. "That a maiden lived there whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee."

"Amerika," Russia calls out once more, his tone sharper than it had been before. "Amerika, release me."

"And this maiden," America goes on, louder, harsher, all as he resumes laying down slab after slab of stone in a hurried state, "she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me."

Russia makes to demand an explanation for his capture, though he's cut off as America gently plucks up one of the bricks from the many piles with particular precision and holds it fondly, the sudden change in his manner becoming oddly fascinating to him as he watches carefully.

"I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea." America pauses in his citation and treats the brick in his hand with loving care as he scrapes the cement against its surface and says, "But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee."

He smashes the red stone against the others with such a force that a frail crack runs through the outer layer and murmurs darkly, "With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven coveted her and me."

Russia is taken aback, once more by the drastic mood swing, though whether it's because of the sheer intensity of his actions or the livid glow lighting up his expression that sparks familiarity, he's able to find his voice and say, "Amerika, an explanation, if you will. If this may have anything to do with our recent conference-"

America stands abruptly, interrupting him and sends the small towers of red stone surrounding him to crash against the floorboards. He steps over the small wall separating the two and crouches in front of the other nation, taking Russia's face into his hands and with conviction recites, "And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling and killing my Annabel Lee."

Russia can only stare in awe as America's touch falls away, the other expression growing dull and dejected, a stark contrast to the emotions he displayed so openly only moments ago.

"So that her high-born kinsman came and bore her away from me," America quotes listlessly. "To shut her up in a sepulcher in this kingdom by the sea."

"Amer-" Russia cuts himself off, deciding to use a different approach. "Alfred, Fredka, speak to me, yes? Just as before?"

America only shakes his head in the negative, not even making eye contact with the other. "The angels, not half so happy in heaven, went envying her and me," he says. "Yes, that was the reason…"

He lifts his hands and slips them underneath the binds that keeps the other still and shifts them about to make a small space without laxing its hold for his hands to rest up against Russia's chest comfortably, one on either side of his heart. Russia can feel the warmth of America's hands seep through his clothing, an unexpected comfort from the chill of the room combined with the dark.

"They took what was his and gave it to you," whispers America, looking rather serene, as though he has just understood. "I knew they wanted him to be like you, but I knew he never would."

Russia looks on at him half-startled, half-confused. Even more so as America's finger fidget with the clasps of his coat and slip in once undone to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. A surprised gasp makes itself known as those same fingers run themselves over the undershirt Russia wears, the last barrier between skin on skin, and grip at the fabric to pull apart as easy as paper. He expects more to happen, and yet that seems not to be the case.

America's finger tips press lightly against the skin of Russia's chest. They remain still for quite some time, the duration of which Russia attempts to make eye contact with America, but the later will not succumb to his want. America keeps his head down, his eyes fixated on his own hands, on the supple flesh beneath them. His fingers spread slightly, flattening against Russia's chest until both palms in their entirety lay as they had before.

"I can feel it," America goes on. "It beats the same way it did while in him. I can remember. Like it was yesterday."

Another gasp, though a painful one, as Americas fingers flex inward and his nails, blunt as they are, dig into the skin, almost enough to draw blood.

"I also remember how it would fall out," says the blonde, with a wry grin. "How he laughed when I panicked the first time. How he would make fun all the times after."

The sudden assault comes to an end, America's hands leave his body as the blonde rises from his position, allowing the cold to penetrate through the tear he had inflicted on Russia's clothing and travels back over the wall. Russia is unable to see what he does, but he hears the rustle of cloth and the crunch of gravel, the clink of metal and the tinkering of glass bottles. When America steps back over the wall, he does so while carrying the lantern and a number of items wrapped in a used rag.

"With you long gone, they'll have to bring him back," America says, wild glint in his eye. "They'll need to show him. Need to show that everything is all right. Everything is fine."

He sets down the lantern and kneels in front of Russia once more. He takes the rag and sets it on the cement floor, unfurls it to reveal a glass bottle filled with clear liquid and a number of surgical tools. It does not surprise him much when he hears America say, "I can keep it for him. I can keep it safe for him so that he can see, he can see what I did. How I never believed. But I have to get it out and I don't have the time to wait around."

"Do you not know what will become of you if you are serious?" Russia demands, testing his bonds once more, attempting to free himself as inconspicuous as possible. "Alfred-"

"Do not use that name," America says sternly. "You are not allowed to use that name."

"Amerika, then. The danger you will put yourself in, your people in as well. My superiors will come after you. They will destroy you."

America hums thoughtfully. "I've thought of that," he confesses and picks the rag away from the tools. He takes a moment to uncap the bottle and soak the rag with the liquid inside. "But I've decided that there are some things that are far more important."

"You're insane."

"Sticks and stones," sings America, as he threads his fingers through the back of Russia's hair and smothers the rag against his nose.

Russia thrashes against the hold in his hair and muffled noise permeates through the fabric. America merely coos at the noise and does his best to shush he excess noise physical exertion. Russia's string of muffled curses and promises of the other's demise are silenced with one more firm press of the cloth against his face.

His body relaxes, completely goes limp, not too soon after. America allows himself a small grin and loosens his grip, setting Russia's head carefully against the wall an removes the cloth completely away. He sets it off to the side, and yet just as he reaches for his needed tools, a sick _squelch _catches his attention, and to his glee, a beating heart sits patiently in a bloody heap on Russia's lap.

America picks it up, as well as all the items he brought with him back to the other side of the wall while remarking to himself on all the luck he suddenly possesses. Feeling lighter than before, he sets the heart down gently next to the lamp and continues his work, placing brick on brick to the tandem of the beating. When the final brick is put into place, America breathes out a heavy sigh and stretches himself out.

"And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side," America mutters softly, quietly. "Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride."

In the dimming light, America lowers himself down to the floor, picking the heart up off from its place. He clutches the beating organ to his own chest. He lowers his head to place a small kiss against the throbbing tissue, staining his lips crimson with residual blood and listens intently to the steady rhythm, taking it in like a lullaby.

"In the sepulcher there by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea…"

**xxx**

Disclaimer: Son cœur est un luth suspendu. Sitôt qu'on le touche il résonne.

-So this was the one that was supposed to be my 13th fic. As you can see, that didn't go as planned. Then again, rarely anything I plan that involves fanfiction ever goes the way I want. DX

-But I was able to make it my 27th fic, which is just as awesome. ^-^

-Anyway, I stumbled across an unfilled prompt asking for yandere!America quoting Edgar Allan Poe while trawling the kink meme ages and ages ago. (Srsly, it has to be a two year old prompt and I don't even know if it's been filled or not, haven't been on the kink meme in months...)

-So... Who can spot all the Poe references? :D


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